


soundtrack

by 13letters



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, Slow Burn, Summer, Yikes, honestly I still have mixed feelings about Ben’s redemption, lots of water imagery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 06:46:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23467105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13letters/pseuds/13letters
Summary: “Hey,” he says, skeptical, wary, and half-wondering if this is it because thirteen days ago he found God again and prayed for something good for the first time in twice as many years, “are you any good at painting?” he asks, because like a faded photograph pressing upon his memory, he remembers his grandfather telling him about the day an angel wondered into his life, and if this is it, then, if this is her, then he’s—he’s been found.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	soundtrack

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who got married!!!! Me! 
> 
> I hope you’re all staying as safe and happy as can be expected xo more to come very soon!!

“Hey,” she says, and if Vladimir Nabokov was writing this, he would describe her neck like the stem of a daisy. Her ribs would be ladders, the teenage fantasy he never got to live when he was listening to Green Day and Blink-182 in his angry childhood bedroom, but twenty one pilots is playing through this old radio, a boom box that is another adolescent dream—say anything—she’s the tear in his heart already, the grease stains and the ribs in his white t-shirt; her, she’s—she’s a yellow bikini top and a beige sweater.

If Vladimir Nabokov was writing this, he would describe her breasts like two perfect scoops of ice cream, his first and last cold shower.

Ben nearly cracks his skull on the pavement, looking up at her like he’s blinded by the sunlight and the tan of her stomach and the whiteness of her teeth grinning at him, oh, help, in seconds he’s stood up from under his car where maintenance work and his summer hopes and dreams rest, and he’s looking at her.

Damn, he’s looking at her.

“You’re not here to work for my dad as his nurse, are you?”

“Oh, no,” she grins, absolutely gushing sunshine and gumdrops and buttercream, she’s so sweet. His sweat is making his skin feel too cold, suddenly, as it should, because he’s just remembered that cancer kills and his fingers are itching like he wants to pull a trigger. He’s got cigarettes in the glove box, and he shouldn’t, there’s one good reason in that house in a wheelchair that’s telling him why he shouldn’t, but he still smokes when he’s stressed.

Ben Solo is always stressed.

“I used to be a nursing major,” she laughs, “ha-ha,” she inflects.

“Did you fail out?”

“I realized I never really liked hospitals,” she says, and this lake house, oh, there’s nothing American about this vacation that is a long pier and a rowboat just a hop, skip, and jump away from this driveway and this masterpiece of a house with its floor-to-ceiling windows and wooden cabin exterior that’s apparently old-money glamour masquerading as a nursing facility. It’s funny, how she’s come here to find Hemingway, and Ben is here so Han can die.

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah.”

The silence stretches for a beat too long, and there’s the scuff of her sandal against his driveway. “I’m sorry,” she says, and there it is, that accent like the wind chimes on the back deck, “I’ve just moved in next door. I wanted to introduce myself and see if you wanted to go get a cheeseburger or an American grilled cheese sandwich. I’ll go.”

Now that, that catches him off guard and actually almost makes him laugh. “You wanted to what?” he calls after her retreating figure. He’s just realized that the nearest house is maybe five minutes away and she isn’t heading up the road, she’s headed for the water. It’s a sign of the times, it’s the crescendo of Harry Styles on the radio fading to an ad, to radio silence, to the first strums of ABBA, when I kissed the teacher, playing like a seventies daydream,

“Hey,” he says, skeptical, wary, and half-wondering if this is it because thirteen days ago he found God again and prayed for something good for the first time in twice as many years, “are you any good at painting?” he asks, because like a faded photograph pressing upon his memory, he remembers his grandfather telling him about the day an angel wondered into his life, and if this is it, then, if this is her, then he’s—he’s been found.


End file.
